


Violin

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A history of pining, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Expression through music, Feelings, Happy Ending, Just when you thought it was safe, M/M, Parentlock, Pre-Relationship, Reichenangst, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: 5 times Sherlock played his violin and 1 time it was different.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosie, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 28
Kudos: 90
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Violin

**_1\. Tchaikovsky - Violin Concerto_ **

“Mmm, what’s that you’re playing?” 

Sherlock glanced up at John, his fingers never missing a note, but shifted his gaze so he was looking over John’s left shoulder. John was like the sun, Sherlock’s personal sun. He was warm, and necessary for survival, but it hurt to look right at him for too long. Just as man would never touch the burning star at the center of the universe, so too had Sherlock resigned himself to never being able to get too close to the center of his universe without burning up. 

_Sentiment._ Sherlock nearly scoffed aloud, caught himself just in time. 

“Tchaikovsky.” 

“It’s rather sad, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock did not answer, turning his back on the softly smiling sun at the center of his universe and walking to the window, glaring down at all the happy people. _Caring is not an advantage._

“Ya know, when you said you played the violin… you made it sound like a bad thing.” John mused aloud and Sherlock didn’t even have to turn around to know that John would have that ridiculous half-smile on his face, the one he seemed to reserve only for when Sherlock was being particularly… _Sherlockian._ Maddening man. “I thought maybe you were just learning or something and I’d be subjected to hours upon hours of screeching. But this… this is quite nice.” 

Something deep in Sherlock’s chest did a flip at the compliment. Sherlock dug his bow into the strings harder and refused to acknowledge the warmth radiating through him. 

“No one in their right mind would ever describe Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto as ‘ _quite nice’.”_ Sherlock scoffed. _Thank you, John. I’ll play forever if you promise to keep looking at me like I’m the moon to your sun._ “I’ve played since I was four.”

“Oh, wow. So this uh… song is probably easy for you, then.” 

_Except when my concentration is divided between the composition and the constant conundrum of the man in the cosy jumpers._

“Easy as pie.” 

* * *

**_2\. Armas Jӓrnefelt - Berceuse_ **

A thump overhead roused Sherlock from where he had slipped into a bit of a doze in his chair. He listened, immediately sharp and alert. A muffled yell. Silence. A grunt, as though someone had taken a punch to the gut. In the next breath, he was on his feet, taking the stairs two at a time as all manner of scenarios flooded his head: Shan’s henchmen back to finish the job, Moriarty — a memory of red sniper lights dancing on John’s torso and forehead caused him to stumble a bit on the well-worn wood of the steps — a disgruntled relative of some other criminal he’d helped put behind bars, danger, danger, _danger._ Sherlock was used to the certain amount of perilousness that befell his every waking moment. It came with the territory, so to speak, when one’s chosen profession was chasing London’s most dangerous class. But now, he had the wellbeing of another to think about it. Not just anyone, either. John. John Watson, the most fascinating man he’d ever met. His sun. His flatmate. His friend.

 _Not John, not John, not John._ His pulse thundered in his ears as he reached the landing and paused to catch his breath, listening. John’s door was nearly closed, a tiny scrap of light leaking from the crack onto the even darker landing. 

Silent as a church mouse, Sherlock pressed his palm against the smooth wood and pushed the door open slowly, so as not to draw attention. Every muscle of his body was taut, coiled and ready to fight the intruder. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, afraid of the lack of noise, terrified that when he opened them it would be to an empty room, or an injured (or worse) John. 

He was unprepared for the sight of John, in an old RAMC t-shirt and boxer shorts, asleep on his back in the middle of the bed. His duvet was on the floor and his sheet was tangled around his bare legs. 

Sherlock stood, peering in puzzlement through the sliver of space he’d made. There was no one there, no intruder, no one threatening John’s life. John was sleeping peacefully, mostly. _Oh._

Composing himself, Sherlock pushed away the last of his residual anxiety and adrenaline and focussed on the data before him. There was sweat beading at John’s hairline and upper lip. There were damp patches in the underarms of his t-shirt. His breathing was ragged, his fists were clenched in the sheets, and his forehead was scrunched like it always was when John was upset about something. Sherlock had seen it many times, often in connection to a particularly helpless victim. 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. John was _fine_. He was having a bad dream, nothing more. Sherlock could understand those just fine. His sleep was rarely restful. 

Tearing himself away from the door and the sight of a sleeping John was difficult, but Sherlock was nudged on by a sudden idea. He took the stairs two at a time and grabbed his violin and bow from where they were resting in his open violin case. Tapping his finger against his bottom lip, he thought for a moment before sliding his violin into position under his chin and letting the first few notes of the piece fill the flat with an uplifting sweetness that he hoped would be just right to lull John back into a peaceful sleep. 

He played for an hour, his arm and eyelids growing heavy, until he was sure that John’s nightmare had passed. 

* * *

**_3\. Fritz Kreisler - Liebesleid_ **

“Sherlock, do consider it and —” 

The rest of Mycroft’s sentence was drowned out by the sound of Sherlock’s harshly screeching bow — purposefully done — and dissonant notes. 

“Sherlock, you can stop now. He’s gone.” 

Despite John’s irritation, Sherlock did not stop, moving to the window and glaring out of it until he saw the black car pull away from the kerb, one particularly overbearing elder brother tucked inside. 

“What was that all about?” John demanded, though there wasn’t much heat behind the words. 

Sherlock shrugged and moved to put his violin away. 

“No, play a bit. You haven’t in awhile.” John hadn’t moved, not really, but he somehow seemed to be settling in. That meant that Sherlock could have a rapt audience, could have John’s full attention. There had been precious little of that lately, as John chased after one woman or another in the minimal amount of free time he had between his work at the clinic and their cases. 

Sherlock thought a moment, his eyes narrowing as he mentally flipped through his hefty catalogue of concertos, waltzes, and sonatas before finally arriving at Kreisler. 

He stretched his neck and shook out his arms before lifting the instrument to his chin and beginning to play. 

The music poured forth, his deepest darkest secrets and desires laid bare at John’s feet. He did not look at John, though he wanted to, was desperate to, to gauge the effect that this particular piece had on John. John was not musically trained, but he was empathetic, attuned to Sherlock in a nearly supernatural way. Sherlock felt as though every errant thought he’d ever had about his flatmate and friend could be read in the shape of the notes as they filled the sitting room; the mournful _pianissimo_ , the _allegro vivace_ tempo keeping time with the racing of his passion-filled heart. 

John leaned back against the headrest of his chair, that same soft, small smile on his face. He looked perfectly content and Sherlock wanted to capture this moment forever. He closed his eyes, committing every detail to memory, shelved in the special room of his mind palace reserved only for John. 

_Ich merke mehr und mehr,_

_Dass ich nur dir gehör',_

_Dass ich dir ganz verfallen_

Sherlock turned away, his back to John as the emotional words filled his head, spoke the secrets of his heart. _Can you hear it, John? Can you hear the passion behind my playing?_

The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the streets, making the buildings look as though they were being burned from an internal inferno. 

His heart sang through his fingers and he _burned_. 

* * *

**_4\. Vitali - Chaconne in G minor_ **

Sherlock laid in bed _— ’bed’_ a very generous description for the hard pallet in some remote corner of Austria where he was currently attempting to get some sleep for the first time in three days — his mind buzzing tiredly with coded messages and the complicated web of criminal names and connections, seemingly never ending. He was exhausted, but sleep eluded him still. He ached — his muscles and tendons strained and stretched from days, weeks, _months_ of physical exertion and lack of proper rest, scarcely recuperating from one fight or flight for his life before the next challenge presented itself, often in the unexpected flash of a concealed blade or slip of the tongue that gave him milliseconds of decision-making time before he needed to run again, his disguise tenuous and slipping more each day, growing nearly careless in his need for respite. 

His mind whirled, a rocket tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad, his heart rate rising rapidly despite himself. He needed a distraction, something with which to calm his inner engine and let him rest. His mind palace beckoned enticingly, but he could scarcely make it through the front hall, as it was so crammed with scraps of new information that he hadn’t had time or energy lately to organise properly. He shut the door firmly and searched for something else. Something light and mindless, something he could lose himself in and drift off for just a few hours, to rest his weary body even if he didn’t fully lose consciousness, the gnawing ache in his back and knees evidence that he was approaching forty at a rapid pace and that this lifestyle had an even more quickly approaching expiration day. 

A train whistle sounded nearby, a slightly dissonant G minor chord, and his head filled suddenly with a familiar piece, one he could play from memory by the time he was a young teen. Vitali’s _Chaconne in G minor_ was a favourite of his, with its wildly swinging key signature, a tangle of flats and sharps matching his equally wildly swinging emotions. He hummed a few bars of the main theme to himself, quietly, the notes carried on the breeze of his breath into the stuffy air of the shoddy room. 

His soul ached with longing; for his room at home, _home_ always meaning Baker Street… and John. The fingers of his left hand pressed into his thumb, the long-loved melancholy melody taking shape in his mind as he played his invisible violin. He missed his violin, hopefully still tucked safely away in its case in the sitting room, in the space between the sofa and the wall. He played himself to sleep, his face damp with tears as he slipped into unconsciousness, far far away from home. 

* * *

**_5\. Mozart - variations on “Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman”_ **

“Mooo-wah!” A small voice demanded, her little hands clapping in delight. “Moooo-wah, Daddy! Yay!” 

John descended the stairs, an armful of laundry muffling his voice, though not his amusement as he called out, “You heard the little miss. Your audience demands more.” 

Sherlock feigned a sigh, brandishing his bow with a flourish as he launched into yet another rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, the popular children’s version of the French classic folk song he’d learned to play as one of his first violin pieces, when he was not much older than Rosie was now. He smiled at her delight as she twirled around the sitting room, her ‘fancy dress’ swirling from her tiny hips in a rainbow of colours. 

“Careful, my darling”, he murmured when she stumbled. She regained her balance easily, running to him and throwing her arms around his leg. John returned from the bedroom, an easy smile lighting up his face at the comfortable domestic scene that greeted him in the sitting room. Sherlock had swapped the violin in his arms for a feisty three year old, and was speaking seriously with her about their plans for the day as he carried her to the window. 

“Tea?” John asked quietly, coming up behind Sherlock and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s trim waist. Sherlock kissed the top of his head, and then Rosie’s matching blonde one, contentment settling around him like a wam afghan. His life felt complete, whole. 

“I’d love some, thank you.” 

Well, nearly complete. There was one tiny thing in particular, a scrap of an idea that had taken hold, gaining momentum with each day that passed until he could no longer ignore it. He wanted to marry John. In itself, as an institution, marriage had never meant much to him. It seemed archaic, unnecessary; a piece of paper that was redundant at the best of times, and complicated at the worst. He loved John and John loved him. They loved their daughter. Their life was complete. And yet, he found himself longing for the last piece of the puzzle, the step to make everything official. His final declaration of intention. 

“Li’l star, Daddy! A-gain! A-gain! Mo-wah!” 

John chuckled, the spell of the moment not broken but dispersed, scattered into a thousand pinpricks of light that filled the room with its magic as he pulled away and went to the kitchen to make their tea, the warmth of his love lingering, filling Sherlock with so much he felt ready to burst. 

He inhaled, placing a squirming Rosie on the floor and picking up his violin once more, injecting every note of the simplistic melody with as much adoration as possible, spilling unchecked from his every pore. 

* * *

**+1.** _**William Sherlock Scott Holmes - Untitled** _

“John,” Sherlock hesitated, and the uncharacteristicness of that pause caused John to look up from his mug, to set it none-too-gently on his side table, next to the novel he’d been trying to finish reading for at least a month. Sherlock drew in a breath, his chest and throat constricting suddenly. 

“Alright, Sherlock?” John was looking at him with concern, now, and Sherlock wondered how this must look, how _he_ must look. He wondered if John, his John, his brave and loyal and wonderful John, could tell that his palms were sweating where he gripped his violin neck and bow’s frog, that his arms felt quivery with nervous energy, that his heart felt swollen in a way that made him wonder briefly if it was possible to actually _die_ from feeling too much. He swallowed, and it sounded horribly loud to his own ears. 

“John, I…” Again, his words failed him and now John was looking properly worried, his eyebrows drawn together. It was late and Sherlock knew John had been thinking about turning in for the night. Moonlight streamed in through the open curtains at Sherlock’s back, the night cold but clear. They’d spent the day in the park with Rosie, and then Rosie had played with Mrs Hudson while they’d sorted out some dreary paperwork from their latest case. They’d had spaghetti bolognese for dinner and Sherlock had given Rosie a bath while John balanced their finances. They’d all three curled up on the sofa to read a bedtime story, and Rosie had been tucked into bed and sleeping peacefully for hours. It had been a perfectly normal, uneventful Saturday, a domestic respite from their busy lives and it was exactly that unremarkableness that prompted Sherlock to do what he was about to do, if only he could find the words. 

“John, I love you.” Those words slipped out naturally, effortlessly, and finally Sherlock was able to breathe properly again. He could do this. He fought criminals regularly. He’d leapt from a building and survived. This was his John. John nodded, the crease of his forehead softening. 

“I love you, too.” He yawned on the last word, his jaw cracking so loudly Sherlock could hear it from where he stood, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet in front of the window. “I’m knackered. Think I’ll turn in. You coming?” He made to stand up and Sherlock held up his arm, the bow in his hand bouncing wildly.

“Wait. Just. A moment. I want to…” John tilted his head quizzically but he remained sitting. “John. I love you and I love our life together. I want to… I want to play something for you.” 

_There._ It was not eloquent by any stretch of the imagination but at least he had John’s attention. He could express the rest of his feelings, he hoped, through his music. John had always been receptive to that, despite his lack of formal musical training. He understood the emotions of the music Sherlock played, because he understood _Sherlock._

He lifted his bow, setting it gently on the strings, and began to play. The piece had been a work in progress for years, since he’d first met John, his greatest muse. He added to it occasionally, never composing formally, the melody existing solely in his head and heart. He let the music fill him, let the strings articulate what his words had failed to do. 

_I love you, I need you, I vow to be yours forever._

_Let’s share our lives together._

He played for what felt like hours, telling their story the way he best knew how. The melancholy of longing, of heartbreak, of distance before the swelling exhilaration of confession, of sentiment returned, of shared love and laughter and memories, of a life built on friendship and passion and the mutual thrill of danger. He didn’t dare look at John while he played because he knew he’d falter, lose his confidence, crumble under the hefty weight of his shared feelings. 

When he finished, the sitting room was silent, the ghost of the last lingering note dissipating into the air. He busied himself with loosening the hairs of his bow and putting it and his violin carefully away in its case, dawdling over the fasteners. At last, he looked up, and it was into beloved blue eyes, swimming with unshed tears. He went to John, knelt down in front of his chair, held his hands in his own. John squeezed his fingers. 

“That was for me, wasn’t it? That was… us.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Yes.” 

“How long...” John didn’t finish his sentence, but Sherlock knew what he meant all the same. 

“Since I first met you. You’ve heard bits of it throughout the years. But it’s… it’s finished now. Not because we’ve reached an end, but rather… well I’d like this to be a beginning of sorts. I’d like… I’d _love_ … I’d love nothing _more_ in this very moment than to marry you, John Watson. Will you— would you like that too?” The words were still difficult, made more difficult yet again by the emotion tightening his throat. John nodded, pressing his lips together in a losing effort to contain his own evident emotions. 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief then, finally, and drew John’s face to his, kissing his future husband passionately. 


End file.
